Dead Man Walking
by Evergreene
Summary: There was a reason they got those tattoos. Hurt!Sam, angsty!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Kripke's sandbox.**

**Summary: There was a reason they got those tattoos.**

**A/N: This story is set in the early part of season three, sometime after Sin City. **

**----------------**

**Dead Man Walking**

**Chapter 1**

Sam Winchester pulled against the coarse ropes that bound him, his eyes fastened on the gun leveled at his head. "Don't do this," he said desperately, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Don't do something you're going to regret."

"I'm not gonna regret this. I'm gonna enjoy it."

"You don't know what happened. I can explain everything, I swear."

The iron-cold click of the gun cocking was the only answer, and Sam renewed his efforts, his nostrils flaring as he fought to get free. "Just listen to me for a second_. Please_."

"I don't have to listen to you. I don't have to listen to anyone anymore."

"But-"

Sam choked as a hand slammed up against his throat, forcing him back against the narrow wooden beam to which he was tied, one of several that lined the stained walls of the rundown motel room. He could feel the timber splintering against his spine, the rough fibers catching in his clothes and hair and in the strong cords that bound him, and he pressed himself back further, searching desperately for some minor relief from the blunt pressure that was crushing his windpipe.

"How about you just shut your mouth?"

The words were growled, threatening retribution if not obeyed, and Sam silenced, waited until the hand against his throat had relented and he had managed to draw in a few painful breaths, before he tried again.

"It's me, I swear."

The fist to his gut expelled all the air inside him, and more besides. Sam barely heard the snarled "You're not him" as he retched miserably, trying to curl over his aching stomach but finding himself held firmly in place by the ropes around his legs, arms and torso. Forcing the pain down, fighting it back, he tried one more time, unwilling to let what he knew was coming actually happen, unable to even consider the consequences. "Dean, listen," he pleaded, "I swear, on everything, on Mom, on Dad, it's _me_. Sam."

But Dean shook his head. "You're not him," he repeated, his eyes cold. "My brother's dead."

"No, I'm not." Sam drew in the deepest breath he could manage against the tightly drawn ropes, and tried to make his voice calmer. "Listen to me, man, you just don't remember what happened. You've got amnesia or something, alright? But I'm telling the truth, I swear to God."

Dean's mouth curled in disgust and he brought the Colt up once more, steadying it with one hand bracing the other, just like their Dad had taught them. "You're a lying son of a bitch, that's what you are."

"No, Dean-"

A sharp backhand to the face halted his words and Sam slumped in his bonds, exhausted. Miserable and despairing, he let his aching head sink back against the wooden beam behind him, wincing slightly as the movement caused a trickle of blood to run into his left eye from the deep gash which sat just below his hairline. He closed his eyes and the blood slowly continued down his face and onto his neck, where it met the tacky rivulets of holy water that dampened the collar and seams of his button-down shirt, remnants of when Dean had doused him with almost half a flask of the blessed liquid. Sam's lack of reaction to the water, however, had done nothing to temper Dean's conviction that Sam wasn't who he claimed to be.

At the sound of movement from in front of him, Sam forced himself to open his eyes, hastily blinking back the blood that was starting to crust on his lashes, making them stick painfully together. Once his vision had cleared, he watched with a growing sense of unease as Dean shifted a couple of steps back until he was leaning against the top of the single table that adorned the room. The piece of furniture creaked uneasily under his weight, its pockmarked surface sagging.

Dean looked at him, his stance deceptively casual, his thumb playing deliberately over the weapon in his hand. "So what are you, anyway?" he said, his gaze never leaving Sam.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked warily, but Dean went on as though he hadn't spoken.

"I gotta tell you," he murmured, "I'm drawing a blank." He shrugged, and a grin lit his face that didn't reach his eyes. "I mean, you're not a shape-shifter, that's for sure. Or a revenant."

Sam shook his head, regretting it immediately as the movement made his aching head spin and caused more blood to trickle down his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean's voice was hard and matter-of-fact. "I want to know what the hell kind of monster you are so I know how to kill you."

"Dean-"

"Tell me!"

The shouted words rang loudly in the ensuing silence, broken only by Sam's hitched breathing and the almost silent stroke of Dean's thumb as it resumed its rhythm over the Colt.

"I'm not any of those things," Sam said desperately. "I'm not a monster. I'm your brother."

"Shut your mouth."

"I died, alright?" Sam said, forcing his words out quickly, hoping to get at least some of the story told before Dean stopped him with another fist to the gut. "You remember that and you're right. I died. But I came back, you brought me back."

"I said to shut the hell up, freak."

"You made a deal," Sam continued tightly, urgently, a muscle twitching in his cheek as the words spilled forth. "With a crossroads demon. It brought me back to life."

"Demons don't just go around resurrecting people," Dean interrupted, scorn lacing his voice. "It would have wanted something, something big."

"Your soul." Sam looked up, met his brother's hooded gaze. "You traded your soul for me."

The sound of Dean's fingers on the firearm stuttered to a halt. "I did what?"

Sam remained silent, watching his brother process this information, hoping that some of it would strike a misplaced chord in Dean's memory.

Instead, Dean stood up, faced him. "If I sold my soul to some demon, then how the hell am I still walking around up here, huh? Shouldn't I be down under by now?"

"She…the crossroads demon…she gave you one year before the deal came due. But I'm not gonna let that happen, alright? I promised. I'm gonna save you."

"But-" Dean shook his head, his shoulders tightening, rounding, as he turned away from Sam. "No, that's impossible."

"Why? Dad made a deal for you."

In a few short strides, Dean was at his throat, hands bunched in the collar of his shirt, shoving him violently against the beam at his back "How do you know about that?" he demanded.

Sam met the furious green gaze, the pounding in his head echoing in rhythm with his heartbeat. "I keep telling you, Dean, I'm your brother." He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "I know everything about you."

Letting go, Dean spun away, covering the distance along the length of the motel room floor with a quick, angry gait. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I don't believe you."

"Why? We deal with the supernatural every day. How is this different?"

"Forget it. You're just trying to distract me, give you a chance to get free."

"I'm not, I swear. I'm telling the truth."

Silence reigned in the cabin for seconds that dragged like hours. Sam waited, knowing that he had probably just used up his last chance to convince his brother of his identity. Finally, Dean came to a halt and turned towards him.

"You know what?" he said. "I've had enough of this crap."

Sam jerked back in his bonds as Dean brought the Colt up and leveled it at his heart.

"Dean, wait!"

"Give me one good reason why I should."

Sam's mind blanked for a second before one name shot into his head. "Bobby!" he blurted out.

Dean paused. "What?"

Sam pressed forward feverishly, ignoring the sharp bite of the ropes against his skin, unable to believe he hadn't thought of the older hunter before, even through the heavy ache in his head. "Call Bobby," he repeated, ever mindful of Dean's finger trembling over the trigger guard of the Colt. "Bobby Singer. He knows what happened, he was there."

Dean stared at him, his face shuttered. "You expect me to believe that _Bobby's_ gonna back up this bull you're trying to feed me?"

"Yeah. I do." Sam took a careful breath. "Call him. Please. For both our sakes."

Never taking his eyes off of Sam, Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. With the gun still aimed at Sam's heart, he pressed a couple of buttons and put the phone up to his ear one-handed. A second later, he snapped it shut. "No answer. Kinda convenient, don't you think?"

Sam was helpless against the desperate laugh that rose in his throat. "Convenient?" he repeated. "How? My own brother's threatening to kill me and we can't get in contact with the only person who knows what happened."

Dean just kept staring at him and Sam met his gaze, hoping against hope that his brother would recognise him. "Dean, please," he murmured softly. "Just trust me on this. You don't want to do this. You don't want to kill me. I'm your brother."

"Sam's dead."

"I'm _not_. Why won't you believe me?"

Dean just kept looking at him. Then, finally, he shrugged. "Screw it," he muttered, almost to himself. His face went blank. "I'm just gonna kill you now."

Sam slumped in his bonds, his brother's words, his death sentence, ringing in his ears. Beaten, he closed his eyes, unwilling to watch Dean fire the bullet that would end his life. Maybe, he thought vaguely, beneath the loud pounding in his head, Dean's deal would be revoked if Sam himself died before the year came due. That way, at least something good would come out of this whole screwed-up mess.

He waited, taking short, shallow breaths that seemed not to bring him any air. When his mind skipped towards thoughts of how long Dean would survive when he remembered what had happened and realised what he'd done, he wrenched it back hastily, unwilling to spend the last moments of his life thinking about what would likely be the last moments of his brother's. But as more and more seconds ticked by without the soft pressure of Dean's finger clamping down on the trigger, Sam steeled himself and cracked open an eye.

Dean was standing right in front of him, his face dead white. Both his hands were wrapped around the handle of the Colt, his fingers clenching it tightly, but the harsh grip was doing nothing to still its shaking.

Sam pried open his other eye. "Dean?" he ventured.

Dean swore suddenly, loudly. "Damn it!" he cursed violently. He was sweating, trembling, and the next thing Sam knew, there was a heavy thud and the gun was on the floor between them. "God damn it!"

"Dean-" Sam started, but cut off abruptly as Dean covered the couple of steps that separated them, pulling out his knife on the way.

Sam flinched as the blade flashed through the air. Seconds later he was on the ground, his knees having hit the worn carpet hard enough to bruise. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it and immediately regretting the motion as the world spun, he looked up.

Dean was standing over him, knife still in hand. Sam's eyes darted to where the gun lay on the floor, but Dean must have noticed which way his gaze was going for, with one swift kick, he sent the firearm skittering away to the other side of the room. Sam felt the irrational urge to ask his brother whether the safety was on.

"Get up," Dean ordered, his voice hard.

"Where are we going?"

"I said, get up!"

Iron fingers fastened around his bicep and Sam found was yanked to his feet. He wobbled, his legs numb from spending so long in the one position, but he forced himself to still quickly when the sharp edge of his brother's favorite hunting knife bit into his neck.

"If you try anything, anything at all, I will slit your throat so fast you won't know what happened." Dean shook him. "Understand? Even if it doesn't kill you, I'm willing to bet it'll still hurt like hell."

Sam grunted his acquiescence, not daring to nod with the blade pressing so close into his skin. His arms were pulled behind him and bound tightly with shards of the rope that had fastened him to the beam, a rough piece of cloth was wrapped around his eyes, and he was pushed and prodded across the breadth of the room, the knife remaining sharp at his neck. They made one brief stop, presumably for Dean to pick up the scattered Colt, before the creak of a door sounded and Sam found himself being shoved out of the room and into the cool night air.

A sharp wind stung his cheeks as he was maneuvered, tripping occasionally, across the motel parking lot, Dean's hand digging brutally into his arm. When he stumbled over a particularly uneven patch of ground, the knife bit for a split second into his throat, and he tensed, his breath catching. Fortunately, Dean's reflexes were as quick as they ever were, and he was jerked upright and pushed onwards before he had a chance to steady himself.

His mind whirling, Sam thought briefly about trying to break free, but rejected the idea just as quickly. Dean's knots were strong, they always had been. Sam knew that from years of being used as a guinea pig in their father's training sessions. And even if he did manage to escape, he reasoned, his heart sinking, he had no way of getting to any of his belongings and no way of reaching any who might be able to help him, Dean having raided his pockets for his cell phone, wallet and money clip hours ago.

Sam would have known the squeak of the Impala's doors anywhere, so he was not fully unprepared when a shove to his back propelled him forward and a rough hand pushed his head down, guiding him under the low top of the car and onto the long length of the back bench-seat, where he collapsed, breathing in the familiar smell of the dark leather. Seconds later, his legs had been bound together with more shards of rope and were shoved inside with the rest of him.

It took Sam longer to place the slow hiss of salt being poured out in a loose circle around him, covering the seat, floor and the backrest of the Impala in a thick layer of crystals. He was sure that the many grains that fell on him were not accidental, and he forced himself not to flinch as they ran inside his collar and down his back, not wanting to give his brother any other ammo to think he wasn't human. Finally, after one last tug at his wrists as Dean checked his bonds, the door slammed shut against his heels, sending a harsh jolt up his whole body.

Seconds later, Sam felt the car subside under a familiar weight as Dean sunk into the driver's seat. He heard his brother draw in one long, slow breath before the low grumble of the Impala's engine started up, drowning out all other noise.

Sam could not help but ask the question that was plaguing him, raising his voice slightly to carry above the growl of the engine. "Why didn't you kill me just now?"

There was no response at first. Then Sam heard the sound of Dean moving about. Without warning, he found his jaw seized in a rough grip and he was pulled towards the outer edge of the seat. The blindfold was wrenched off from around his head, taking a few bits of hair with it, and the strip of material was forced into his mouth and pulled tight, gagging him firmly. Strong fingers that trembled slightly before steadying fastened a swift knot with the ends of the material at the back of his head, sending more salt crystals scuttling for cover. Then, before Sam could catch more than a quick, shadowed glimpse of his brother's impassive face, he was abruptly released and pushed back into the seat once more.

Shifting about cautiously, Sam tested the strength of the ropes around his limbs. Finding little give, and certainly not enough to warrant an escape, he settled, feeling the strange sensation of salt grains running down his back, clinging to his still clammy clothes and to the sweat-dampened curls hidden underneath the collar of his shirt. Suddenly exhausted, he let his head fall back against the cool leather bench beneath him, and felt the pounding ache subside slightly. Staring at the dark seatback in front of him, he sought solace in the familiar rumble of the Impala as it pulled out of the parking lot and prayed that he would come out of the next day or so alive. For his sake and for Dean's.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Kripke's sandbox.**

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, and to everyone else for reading! This is my first serious foray into writing for Supernatural, so it's nice to know that people are enjoying it. On with the story :)**

--------------------

**Chapter Two**

It was near dusk on a Tuesday evening when Bobby Singer answered a knock on his door to find Dean Winchester on his front porch, the Impala a dark shadow in the yard behind him.

"Dean?" he said, surprised. "What're you doing here? I didn't expect you and Sam 'til next week."

Dean didn't respond. "You haven't been answering your phone," he said instead.

Bobby grimaced. "Yeah, there's been a few storms hanging round. My reception's been on the fritz since last week. Why? You boys been trying to get in contact with me?"

Again, Dean didn't seem to hear him. "Mind if I come in?"

"Sure, sure." Bobby backed up a few steps, allowing Dean entry into the house and shutting the door behind him. "Where is that brother of yours, anyway?" he asked as he followed Dean down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen, where the remains of his dinner were cooling on the tabletop.

"Sam's dead."

In the process of reaching into the refrigerator for a couple of beers, Bobby froze. "What did you say?"

Dean continued, his voice monotone. "And there's something in his body and I need your help to get it out."

His stomach rolling, Bobby straightened up and, closing the fridge door behind him, turned to face Dean. The younger man was standing alone in the middle of the kitchen, his back ramrod straight, like he was on sentry duty.

"I think it's a demon," Dean went on. "Possessing him." His eyes flicked to Bobby for a brief second before they jerked away again. "I thought it was a shape-shifter at first." The corner of his mouth tilted slightly. "But then I remembered they've gotta keep whoever they turn into alive, so hey, there went that theory."

Bobby took a step forward, towards Dean, but halted as the other hunter flinched back. Instead, Bobby raised his palms in placation. "Dean, slow down a minute-"

But Dean just kept talking. "Then I thought it might be a revenant. You know, animating his body. But Dad told me they don't bleed, and this thing does. So the way I figure it, is there's gotta be something in Sam, keeping his blood moving."

Throwing caution to the winds, Bobby moved forward, grasping Dean by the shoulders. "Kid, you gotta stop for a second, I'm begging you."

"No, dammnit!"

The next thing Bobby knew was that Dean had one hand bunched in his collar and was shoving him backwards until he hit the kitchen wall with a hollow thud. "No," Dean repeated, and his voice was hoarse, his whole body trembling. "I can't do this, Bobby, alright? I can't. I want this thing out of Sam."

"Dean-"

"Bobby, please. I just want to bury my brother, that's all I'm asking. Just give me that."

Bobby stared at the younger hunter, taking in the pale face that was lined with dark stubble, the dull and desperate gaze, the way that Dean was swaying slightly on his feet, from exhaustion or drunkenness, he didn't know and didn't really want to guess. Then his mind did a one-eighty and he thought of Sam, remembering the way the kid's body had hung limp and heavy in his arms at Cold Oak as he and Dean had carried him to the car. He thought of that body moving, with something that wasn't Sam inside of it.

Again, he found himself fighting to keep his dinner down and, his mind made up, he nodded his agreement. "Alright. Whatever it takes, Dean, we'll do it, I promise. For Sam."

Dean didn't say a word, but he loosened his grip on Bobby's collar and stepped back until he was resting against the kitchen benchtop.

Bobby took a deep breath, struggling to keep the burning sense of grief that was building inside of him in check until they got this ugly deed done. "So," he started abruptly, clearing his throat with a cough. "You sure it's a demon?"

Dean shrugged. He seemed to have lost his anger of only a minute or so previous and had reverted back to the unsettling stillness of before. "It's the only thing I can think of."

"But what about those charms I gave the two of you? If Sam was wearing one, nothing should have been able to get in him, whether he was alive or-"

"He isn't wearing one," Dean interrupted.

Bobby frowned. "He wasn't? Are you sure? Because after what happened in Twin Lakes and Duluth last year, he never takes that thing off."

"It was the first thing I checked, Bobby. He isn't wearing it."

"Hmm. You tried holy water on it? Whatever it is?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Nothing. But holy water didn't work on Yellow-Eyes either. It just means that whatever's in him is a bigger baddie than I first thought."

Bobby shook his head. "It'd have to be, for holy water to have no effect. What about silver?"

"I've tried everything, Bobby. It's not working. But it's a possession, I'm sure of it."

Bobby frowned again. Something wasn't quite right about all of this. "Dean," he began carefully, "are you sure that-"

"That what?" Dean interrupted bluntly. He shoved himself up off the benchtop and took a couple of steps forward. "Am I sure that Sam's dead? 'Cos I gotta tell you, Bobby, I'm pretty _damn_ _sure_ I remember him holding him as he died in my arms!"

"I didn't mean…" Bobby paused, grimacing, knowing that the wrong words here would go down like a plane on fire. "Dean," he tried again. "I only meant to say are you sure that it's a demon? I mean, from what you've told me, it's sure as hell not reacting like one."

"I'm certain of it. Believe me, I'm not wrong about this. Now are you gonna help me or what?"

Bobby sighed. "Just…give me a minute, would you?" Turning around, he pulled a beer out of the fridge and held it out. "And here, why don't you have a drink. You probably need one."

Dean's mouth firmed into a grim line. "I'm not the one who's possessed, Bobby."

"Humour me, alright?"

"Fine." Dean took a swig of the beer then set the bottle down on the worktop. "Satisfied?"

Looking carefully at the other man and seeing no sign of possession, Bobby pushed his doubts aside. Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded. "Alright then. Where is it?"

Dean seemed to subside. "Tied up in the car."

"Ok." Bobby took another deep breath, casting a glance out the window to the dark yard where the Impala was waiting with its macabre contents. "So we'll get it inside, then get to work on exorcising it. Alright?"

Dean nodded, already turning towards the doorway.

About to follow him, Bobby hesitated briefly, concern warring with a pressing need to get the grizzly task done. Finally, his concern for the only living Winchester won, and he reached forward, placing his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean turned to face him, and Bobby swallowed at the look in his eyes, but continued nonetheless. "Dean," he began carefully. "Are you sure you want to go ahead with this right away?" He paused. "You should rest up first, regain your strength. You look like you haven't slept in days. I mean, how long's it been since it happened?"

Dean shrugged. "'bout a week, I think. But I've waited long enough. We're doing this now."

"But- Just talk to me a while. How did it happen?"

Dean looked up, confusion momentarily clouding the grief in his eyes. "What are you talking about? You were there."

Bobby frowned. "What? I wasn't there."

A crease appeared on Dean's forehead. "Yeah, you were."

"Seeing one of you boys die isn't something I'm gonna forget, Dean. Of course I wasn't there!"

Dean stared at him disbelievingly. "You're kidding me, right? You went running after the son of a bitch who stabbed Sam!"

"I went after…" Bobby trailed off, his mind spinning. "Dean," he began, "you're not talking about Cold Oak, are you?

Dean fixed him with a iron-hard glare. "What the hell else would I be talking about?"

"But that was _weeks_ ago. Cold Oak happened weeks ago!"

"You're crazy," Dean said scornfully, but Bobby interrupted him.

"And your brother isn't dead. I mean, he died, yeah, but you made a deal for him, goddamn fool that you are."

Dean shook his head disgustedly. "Not you too."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"The demon, or whatever it is, it tried to spin some crap about a crossroads deal as well."

Bobby gazed at Dean, unable to believe what he was hearing. Finally, he managed to gather his wits about him. "What the hell've you done, boy?" he demanded. Pushing past Dean, Bobby strode out of the kitchen, down the hall and out into the night. Hurrying down the steps leading up to the porch, he went over to the Impala and bent down to look through the back window and into the dark interior of the car. His eyes roving over the long body with its mop of hair that was hunched up on the backseat, he took in the ropes with a sharp glance before carefully raising a hand and rapping against the glass pane. "Sam?" he called loudly. "Kiddo? You alright?"

The body on the seat twisted, and Bobby caught a quick glimpse of panicked eyes in a pale face before a sharp voice interrupted.

"Get away from there."

Bobby spun around. Dean was standing at the bottom of the porch steps, his hands wrapped around the handle of the Colt, which was aimed straight at Bobby.

Raising his hands, Bobby took a slow, deliberate step away from the Impala. "Dean, wait a moment."

"I said, back off!"

Bobby took another step back. "Just think about this. It doesn't add up. If I was there when Sam was stabbed, why would I have left you to come back here?"

Dean didn't move. "I don't know," he gritted out.

"And how'd you get away from Cold Oak?" Bobby pressed. "Why's the stab wound on Sam's back look like it's been healed for months?"

The gun in Dean's hand wavered an inch. "How'd you know that?"

"Because Sam showed me the scar! Look-" Putting his hands down, Bobby took another step away from the car and towards Dean. "How 'bout we just go inside and talk about this for a second? Just you and me."

Dean's grip tightened on the firearm and he glared at Bobby, his face pale. "I can't believe this. You don't think I know my own brother? You think I can't tell when there's a god damn _demon_ inside of his body?"

"All I'm saying is that you're confused. Look, I don't know what exactly happened, or how this all came to be, but I'm telling you now: Sam's not dead."

"Yes, he is. And there's something possessing his body, I'm sure of it. So we'll exorcise it."

Reaching up, Bobby pulled his cap off, running a gnarled hand over his salt and pepper hair. "I can do all the exorcisms you want on the kid, but it won't make a lick of difference. Dean." Casting a quick glance at the shadowed figure on the Impala's backseat, Bobby fixed his gaze on the man standing opposite him. "That's your brother in there, I swear it."

Dean shook his head. "It's not Sam."

"Dean-"

"It's not!" Dean snapped. His voice quietened. "I watched him die, Bobby. I felt it."

"And I saw him alive and well on my doorstep not three days after! You brought him back, Dean. Sam's alive. Why won't you believe it?"

"Because things like that don't happen to me!" Dean burst out. "My mom died, my dad. Everyone I've ever—" He stopped abruptly, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Everyone except Sam," he finished. "So tell me, why the hell would I get lucky enough to keep him?"

Bobby gazed at him incredulously. "You count making a demon deal to go to hell in a year as being lucky?"

"Sam would be alive, wouldn't he?"

About to retort, Bobby stopped. Finally, he shook his head. "This the only way to convince you that that's Sam in there?"

Dean didn't answer, but he lowered the gun in his hand back down to his side.

Bobby settled his cap back on his head with a sigh. "Alright then."

----------------

Bobby had to bite his tongue more than once as Dean, using more force than was necessarily required, dragged Sam out of the car and into the house. This accomplished, Bobby watched silently from the corner of the room as Dean manoeuvred his brother into a chair in the middle of the study, directly under the massive Devil's Trap painted on the ceiling, and began binding him in place with several lengths of rope. He met Sam's gaze once, but Dean quickly cut in between them, gesturing for Bobby to fetch the exorcism ritual they were going to use. But even in that single brief glance, Bobby realised that the youngest Winchester was nervous as all hell, and was doing his best not to show it.

When Dean had finally finished tightening the ropes binding Sam, Bobby pulled a sheet of yellowing paper out from a leather-bound book on the top shelf of his bookcase. "Alright. This here is ancient Sumerian. Got it from Jim Murphy a few years back. It's the most powerful exorcism ritual I've ever heard of. If there's something in Sam, this'll get it out."

Dean looked at him sharply, suspicion in his eyes. "You sure about that?"

Bobby returned Dean's gaze evenly. "You implying you don't trust me, boy?"

After a few seconds, Dean's gaze fell. "No. Course not."

"Good. Then let's get this over with."

About to hand the piece of paper bearing the ritual over to Dean, Bobby paused.

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Just tell me this. What if the ritual doesn't work?"

"You mean what if it's some revenant or something? I already told you, I tested all that-"

"No, I mean what if that's your brother sitting tied to chair in the middle of my study, like I've been telling you?"

Dean's whole body tensed and his face hardened. "For the last damn time," he gritted out, gesturing sharply at Sam, who was watching them, every so often giving a slight tug against the ropes that bound him, "the thing that's sitting there, in that chair? It's a monster, Bobby, a goddamn demon. And I'm gonna send its sorry ass back to hell. You got that?"

Bobby shrugged. "You can go on thinking that as long as you like, kid." He let his own gaze harden. "But before I let you do this, you're gonna promise me one thing. You're gonna promise me that if nothing happens, if no black smoke comes shooting out of your brother over there, you're gonna let Sam go."

Dean's mouth twisted. Seeing it, Bobby began to fold the piece of paper down the middle, preparing to slot it back in its place in the book.

"Fine!" Dean bit out, his voice abrupt. "If nothing happens, I'll let the damn demon go and you can deal with it yourself. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Bobby said dryly.

Moving so that he was directly in Sam's line of sight, Bobby sent the younger man a reassuring nod, then watched as Dean began to read, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar words. But when Dean was almost three quarters of the way through the ritual and was showing no signs of stopping, despite the lack of response from his 'demon,' Bobby decided it was about time he cut in.

"Dean!" he barked. His voice cut right through the exorcism and Dean paused, glaring him. "I need to talk to you for a minute."

Unwillingly, Dean followed him into the next room, leaving Sam behind.

Gearing himself up for what he was about to say, Bobby turned to face the other hunter. "Alright. That's enough," he declared.

"No. I'm just not far enough through yet."

Something in Bobby snapped. "Dammnit boy, what the hell's wrong with you?" he demanded. "Why won't you get it through your thick head that that's your brother in there! I mean, look at this." Striding over to the table, Bobby picked up that day's newspaper and shook it in Dean's face. "Look at the date. Go on! It's June 19th, Dean, it's _weeks_ after Sam died. So what've you been doing since then, huh?"

For the first time, he saw a flicker of doubt cross the younger man's face, but it quickly faded, to be replaced by a burning anger. "My brother's dead," Dean ground out.

"He's not! Sam's right in front of you and you trying to exorcise him ain't doing him any favours! Hell, Dean, he spent most of last year thinking he was gonna turn evil! And now you're trying to exorcise him? Again? Boy, I'm telling you now, your brother's right in front of you, but you go ahead with this exorcism and you'll be damn lucky if you've got one left. Understand?"

Dean just stared at him. "I'm doing this," he stated simply. His face was hollow. "I'm getting this thing out of Sam's body. And then I'm going to bury my brother. With or without your help."

With that, Dean turned around and strode back into the study. Snatching up the exorcism ritual, he began to read it from the beginning, his eyes never leaving the long body in the chair before him.

Bobby watched silently from the doorway as Dean's voice went on and on, stumbling in parts, and becoming more forceful in others until he was practically shouting. The ritual was long and damn tricky, but Bobby hadn't been lying when he had said that it was powerful. If there was any kind of demon or evil spirit in Sam, it would get it out.

By the time the ritual was over, Dean's voice had faded to an exhausted murmur. Around them, the room was still. No wind, no flickering lights, no head spinning or smoke spewing out of the window. Just Sam, sitting upright and still in the chair, his body rigid against the ropes that bound it and his eyes fixed on his brother, who was staring at him silently, his face emotionless.

The minutes passed by endlessly until finally, still without speaking, Dean took a step forward, bent down and began untying the ropes that bound Sam to the chair. It took only seconds for Bobby to join him and in less than a minute Sam was struggling upright, rubbing his wrists, his legs and arms uncertain as a newborn colt as he tried to massage feeling into long-restrained limbs. Bobby saw him look at Dean, trying to catch his eye, but Dean glanced away, coiling the pieces of rope that had bound his brother between his hands, and refusing to meet Sam's gaze. Bobby looked between them both, then shook his head and helped Sam stumble into the kitchen, where some icepacks, bandages and a solid meal awaited him.

Once he had Sam settled into a chair, clapping a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder, Bobby moved back to the doorway which led into the living room and snuck a look through.

Dean was staring after him and Sam, his gaze unreadable. Then, with one fierce movement, he threw the bloodstained ropes to the floor and strode out of the house, the screen door banging shut behind him.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Kripke's sandbox.**

**A/N: Again, thank you so much to everyone reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoy this last chapter, and I'd love to know what you all thought! **

-------------------

**Chapter 3**

The summer sun beat heavily upon the twisting, metal maze of abandoned cars that littered Singer's Salvage Yard, and upon Dean Winchester's back as he hefted the last of his bags into the trunk of his '67 Chevy Impala. Panting slightly in the midmorning heat, he slammed the lid shut on top of them and let himself fall back against the smooth black surface of the Impala. Reaching up, he swiped a hand over the back of his neck, feeling the skin tingle slightly where he touched it. He grimaced. He'd spent a lot of time outside recently, as the reddened, peeling skin on the back of his neck and shoulders would attest. But it was better this way. He was sure of it.

It had been four days since he had tried to exorcise his brother; three since he had regained his memories of the past few weeks, which included not only making a deal with a crossroads demon to bring Sam back from the dead but, more recently, waking up in a hospital room alone after a chupacabra hunt gone bad. There had been no brother sitting beside his bed when he had regained consciousness, nothing except for his dark blue jacket flung over the arm of an otherwise empty chair, and the last thing he had been able to remember was the rushing in his ears as he held the limp weight of his brother in his arms as Sam bled out from a knife wound in the back.

He hadn't understood what had happened, how he had ended up in the hospital, nor where Bobby had gone, but the choking, desperate need to be alone, to find Sam's body, to grieve, had clouded everything else until he had finally thrown back his blankets and bolted, desperate to get away from anything and everything. He had fled the hospital with its sterile white hallways and crisp white sheets and had found himself a crappy room in the first rundown motel he could find, where he-

Dean pulled himself up short, refusing to think of the hours he'd spent alone, surrounded by empty bottles and shattered glass, before finally hearing the room door open and looking up to see-

No. He wasn't going to go there. Sam was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Since regaining his memory, he had done some research on concussions and memory loss. It turned out it wasn't unheard of for someone suffering amnesia to go back to the last traumatic event they had experienced. Dean had snorted when he had read that last part, figuring that having your brother die in your arms was traumatic enough for anybody. But he had been forced to silence himself quickly when Sam had rolled over in his sleep, almost falling off of Bobby's old couch in the process, his face bathed in the eerie blue glow of the laptop screen. Dean had closed the computer quickly and stowed it back in Sam's duffel bag, not wanting to have to explain to his brother just what he had been doing.

Truth be told, he hadn't actually spoken to Sam all that much since the failed exorcism, not wanting to trigger the ugly confrontation that he was sure was coming. Dean had screwed up, big time, and whilst Sam had given no sign that he was pissed at Dean, he definately wasn't acting like he usually did. Things weren't right between the two of them, not by a long shot. And Dean knew that it was his fault. But he had a plan to fix things as best he could. And it was about time he put it into action.

Steeling himself, he pushed himself off of the Impala and headed inside, coming to a halt outside the living room which he and Sam had shared as a makeshift bedroom for years, ever since their Dad had first dropped the two of them at 'Uncle' Bobby's for a night that had turned into a week.

His eyes roved past the rumpled bedding on the floor, then past the empty couch, which was only a little more comfortable due to a series of unfortunately placed springs. The blanket that served as a bedcover lay carefully folded at the end of the couch, a victim of Sam's unwavering neatstreak. Sam's clothes, however, were for once littered over both floor and furniture, and Sam himself was hunched over the small table they had salvaged together during a covert midnight operation the last time they had stayed at Bobby's.

Sam was sitting on a low chair in front of the table, his laptop before him and his knees bunched up somewhere around his ears as he leant in towards the computer screen, eyes fixed on whatever it was he was researching. More often than not these days, he was researching Dean himself, or at least, ways of releasing Dean from the crossroads deal. Making a mental note to find and destroy Sam's most recent information dump, Dean watched his brother silently from the doorway for a few moments before finally stepping into the room.

"Hey," he said.

At the sound of his voice, Sam started and swivelled round in his chair so quickly that he almost fell off. A week and a half ago Dean would have laughed. Now he just watched, silent.

Recovering his balance, Sam looked up, a yellowing bruise on his jaw making his face look slightly lopsided as he met Dean's gaze. The deep gash at his hairline where Dean had knocked him out that first morning, having just watched his dead brother storm into his motel room, demanding to know where the hell he'd gone, was healing well according to Bobby, who had stitched it up as soon as Dean had mentioned it and had then proceeded to lay into Sam for playing stoic in "a dumb ass attempt at sparing your brother's feelings."

Sam quirked a nervous half-smile at him. "Dean. Hey."

"What're you doing?"

Sam looked startled. "Huh? Oh, nothing."

If Dean hadn't been watching his brother so carefully, he might not have noticed the way Sam surreptitiously slid a couple of books under the couch with his foot. As it was, he did notice.

"Sam, I told you before-"

"I'm not gonna stop searching, Dean," Sam interrupted. "I told you before, I'm going to save you whether you like it or not."

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"Short of killing me, you-" Sam halted mid-sentence, his face reddening. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have-"

"Don't worry about it," Dean cut in, his voice tight. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Neither did you," retorted Sam. "But hey, since when do you listen to me about stuff like that."

"Sam," Dean started, then trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

Sam stared at him for a few seconds longer, then, shaking his head, went back to his laptop.

Silence drowned out the noises of Bobby tinkering around with one of his cars outside until finally Dean forced himself to voice the question that had been plaguing him since his memory had returned and he had pieced together the events leading up to his waking up in the hospital room alone. "So where were you?"

Sam didn't ask what he meant. Instead, he laughed, a wry gulp that seemed to burst out of him before he could rein it back in. "I went to get coffee," he said, and there was something dark in his eyes as he met Dean's gaze for a second, before Dean broke away.

"And?"

"And when I got back to your room, you were gone." Sam frowned, his brow furrowing. "None of the nurses could tell me where you were and I couldn't find you in the hospital. So, eventually, I left and started trying to chase down where you'd gone. I finally managed to track you to the motel where you'd set up camp and then-" Sam hesitated, looking suddenly unsure of himself. "Well, you know the rest."

Dean nodded slowly. The memory of seeing the motel room door open and his dead brother walk in wasn't something he'd be forgetting anytime soon. Unless, he thought dryly, another chupacabra decided to throw him into a tree. "And your charm?"

Sam reached inside his shirt and pulled out the missing anti-possession charm on a loop around his neck before dropping it again. "I found it in my duffel this morning," he said quietly. "I think the string must have snapped when I was getting changed or something, got caught in one of my shirts." He shrugged. "I'm not really sure though." His mouth curled wryly. "Guess we were just unlucky with the timing."

Dean was unable to prevent the snort that rose through his throat. "Yeah. Unlucky."

"I've been doing some research the past couple of days though," Sam went on, brightening suddenly, "on protective symbols and binding locks, stuff like that. I think maybe if we got something tattooed on us it would prevent anything getting in, whether we were wearing the charms or not. That way, if anything happened and we didn't have the charms on us, you wouldn't think I was…" He trailed off abruptly. "We would know who we were," he finished clumsily.

Dean felt the bile rise in his stomach at the thought of anything like the events of the past few days reoccurring. Fighting the sick feeling down, he nodded. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

Sam flashed him a quick smile before turning back to his laptop, his fingers starting to dart over the keys once again as he continued with his research.

Dean watched him a few more moments. Sam seemed off somehow, more full of nervous energy than usual, and he kept sending quick glances towards Dean. It only tightened Dean's resolve.

"Look, Sam" he interrupted, studiously avoiding his brother's gaze, which had immediately flicked his way, "I'm gonna take off for a few days. Keep out of your hair for a while, give you a chance to get back on your feet. Bobby'll know where I am, so if anything comes up, just let him know."

He chanced a look up. Sam was staring at him, open-mouthed.

He continued in a rush. "I know I freak you out, Sammy. I mean, I beat the hell out of you. And I'm sorry for that, I am."

Sam was still staring at him.

"Yeah. So, I'll see you in a few." Dean tried for a half-hearted grin, but it came off more as some sort of twisted grimace, and he turned quickly and strode out of the room, and out the front door. It took him a few minutes but he finally managed to track Bobby down to where he was working in the junkyard, and he stopped and said goodbye, mumbling an awkward thanks that Bobby brushed off without hesitation.

That taken care of, Dean headed for the Impala, which he had finished packing earlier that morning and had left in front of the house. It wasn't until he was a few feet away, however, that he saw the dark-haired figure sitting in shotgun. He shook his head, his resolve hardening. "That little bitch," he muttered, before striding forward and hammering on the window.

"Sam!" he shouted.

Sam glanced up from his laptop, which was balanced carefully on his lap. Winding down the window, he raised an eyebrow. "Anytime you feel like leaving, Dean," he stated pointedly.

It was Dean's turn to stare at his brother open-mouthed. Closing his jaw with a snap, he jerked the Impala's passenger door open. "What the hell are you doing in there?" he demanded, bending down so that he was eye to eye with Sam. Didn't Sam realise how close he had come to killing him? How dangerous he was? Suddenly, he was furious. He stepped back, swinging the door wide open. "Get your ass out of my car!"

"Sorry, man," Sam said, going back to the computer in front of him, "but I've told you before--you're stuck with me."

Dean glared at him. "Dude, you are not coming with me. I almost shot you!"

"So? I've shot you before."

"You were possessed, Sam, it doesn't count!"

"You had amnesia, Dean, it doesn't count either!"

Dean growled, and, spinning away, kicked the front wheel of the Impala, furious. "You are such a stubborn pain in the ass sometimes, you know that?"

Sam shrugged easily. "I learned from the best."

Drawing to a halt, Dean ran a hand over his face before turning to his brother. "I remember it, Sammy, all of it. You were scared of me."

Sam frowned. "I wasn't scared of you. I was pissed, yeah, but-"

"I tried to exorcise you!"

"It didn't work-" Sam argued, but Dean ignored him.

"Then what about back at the motel room, huh? I had the god damn Colt in your face, Sam! I was about to waste you!"

"But you didn't."

Abruptly, Dean stilled, his face paling slightly as he looked at Sam. "I was going to," he admitted. "You have no idea how close I came to-" He stopped, unable to finish. Finally, he forced himself to take a deep breath. "Look. I'm doing this for you. Me leaving right now is for the best."

Sam's gaze snapped up to meet his. "No offence, Dean," he said testily, "but I don't really care what you think is _best_ for me, alright?"

Dean paused. He was pretty sure that Sam wasn't talking about what he was talking about anymore. He quickly brushed the thought to the side, however and strode forward, fully prepared to haul Sam bodily out of the car if he had to. Sam didn't even blink, just rolled his eyes and went back to his computer.

Dean had just grasped his first handful of Sam's button-down when something caught his eye. He paused. Bobby's anti-possession charm was resting on the outside of Sam's shirt, hanging low on his chest, in clear view. Dean knew it wasn't there by chance.

Pulling back, he stared at his brother. "You're kidding me, right?" he demanded. "Don't think that wearing that will make me change my mind. If the string breaks again and something happens-"

For the second time that day, Sam reached up and hooked his fingers around the charm, bringing it forwards so Dean could see it more clearly. The charm was strung on a long piece of metal chain.

"Break proof," Sam said smugly, tugging at it.

"Sam-"

"And don't worry. I took precautions in case it does come off somehow." Sam pulled up the left sleeve of his checked shirt and showed the arm underneath to Dean.

Dean stared down at the underside of Sam's wrist, then looked up to meet his brother's gaze. "What the hell is that?" he demanded flatly.

"It's a Devil's Trap."

"It looks like it's been drawn on."

"I used a Sharpie, actually. It's only temporary though." Sam frowned, staring down at the slightly irregular symbol sketched on his skin, just underneath the scar from Meg's binding lock. "I still think that some kind of tattoo is the best option," he muttered, half to himself.

Drawing back, Dean looked at his brother, who, having finished studying his arm, flashed him a quick grin as he rolled his various layers back down to cover the seal again. "You seriously made yourself into a lock-box?" he said disbelievingly. "Like we did with the car that time?"

"Yep."

"Huh."

"So, you coming?"

Dean looked at his little brother, considering him. Sam's mouth had firmed into its most stubborn line and he looked fully prepared to argue his point all day. And it wouldn't be the first time he'd done just that.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You are such a little bitch sometimes, you know that?" he muttered, irritated. Backing up, he slammed the door on his stubborn, know-it-all, pain-in-the-ass brother and made his way round to the driver's side. Opening the door, he slid into the familiar seat, fully aware that Sam was watching him. Refusing to return the look, Dean reached his hand into his jacket pocket for his keys. The next second, he withdrew it.

"Dude?" he demanded.

Beside him, Sam reached into his own pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala, handing them over to Dean with just a hint of sheepishness. Dean took them silently.

"Well, I wasn't going to let you leave me behind," he heard Sam mutter from beside him.

Shaking his head, Dean fitted the key into the ignition and started the engine, feeling the familiar rumble of the Impala beneath him.

Surreptitiously, he watched as Sam settled himself down for the journey ahead, closing the laptop and stowing it besides his feet before twisting round and reaching awkwardly into the back seat to filch Dean's favourite pair of sunglasses out of his duffel bag. Sam slipped them on before sliding down in the seat, his legs scrunched up against the Impala's low dashboard. Shaking his head, Dean let his eyes trail slowly over his brother, taking in the gauntness of a few days without food that had yet to fade completely from Sam's torso, sliding quickly over the bandages that covered the torn but healing wrists, and finally coming to rest on Sam's face, half-hidden though it was under the shades. He felt a sudden current of contentment spread through him. Sam was _alive_.

"Dude," Sam said, pushing the sunglasses up onto his forehead. "You look at the road when you drive, remember?"

Without answering, Dean reached over and flicked Sam's ear, managing to avoid any sites of possible injury whilst evoking a sharp grunt of protest from his brother. "So," he said instead, "you wanna get a tattoo, huh, bro?" He grinned at Sam for the first time in over a week, feeling something familiar slot back into place as he did so. "That's kinda kinky."

Sam shook his head but didn't bother trying to hide his own smile as Dean shifted the Impala into gear and pulled out of the driveway, sending billows of dirt into the air in their wake. "You're getting one too, you know," he said.

Dean shook his head as he reached forward to push his favourite cassette tape into the tape deck. "Dude, I'm totally not."

As he listened to his brother launch into a long, thoroughly researched argument of why, exactly, it was that Dean should get a tattoo, Dean felt a grin play around his lips. Things weren't quite right between them, not yet, but they would be. For a few more months, at least.

**END**


End file.
